


Words Are Very Unnecessary

by manmeabanana



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crying, Feelings, Fluff, Gay Love, Gay Tenderness, Gay yearning, Holding Hands, Its all about the hands, Love, M/M, Missing Scene, No Dialogue, Pining, Romance, Tenderness, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Yearning, a metric ton of commas, cishet ppl cant even see this fic itll blind them, gay author, hand holding, i like to describe things :), no words only feelings, you will only truly understand this fic if ur gay tbh, youre welcome lgbt+ community
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 21:51:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19981093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manmeabanana/pseuds/manmeabanana
Summary: As they ride from Tadfield back to London, Crowley's introspections about humanity, and the universe, and love - how everything he cares about in life could have been thoughtlessly stripped from him in an instant - make him, despite his very best efforts, emotional. Aziraphale wouldn't even think to shirk from relieving him of the burden of the longest day they've ever had in their lives.





	Words Are Very Unnecessary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [all the tender gays out there](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=all+the+tender+gays+out+there).



> I've written a ton of fic before but this is the first serious one I've managed to actually finish in the past 5 years so I hope you enjoy!! But if you don't I don't care I wrote this for myself lmao that's self care babey !  
> Never ask me for anything ever again.

Crowley sat haphazardly, long legs outstretched and barely even able to be contained by the following row of seats, gripping his solemnly-removed sunglasses in his right hand. He peered out the window mindlessly, bodilessly, letting the blur of passing lights and vague distant objects wash over him like an ocean's tide, the gentle hum of the bus the only reminder that he was still there.

It was over.

It was finally over, and he won.

_They_ won, together.

He sighed in relief, and took in another, fresh, nascent breath in return. They _won_. It was _over_.

Without turning his head, without tearing his eyes from the sea of brightness and brilliance among darkness looming outside his enclosure that had just nearly escaped the throes of destruction without even a semblance of awareness of it, he could feel an angel give him such a gaze as to beg, to pray for his in return. But Crowley was in no state to come to grips with what his counterpart's eyes were offering, and, in a convoluted, metaphorical, almost poetic way, he felt that he already _was_ returning it.

Crowley couldn't bear to look at him now. Now that the world had at last come to a standstill, now that the threat of armageddon had, however unlikely, been averted, and these two cold, frightened creatures under God's sky were, for the first time in their incomprehensibly long lives, allowed the one thing in the universe that they truly longed for, that they had been desperately reaching for, needily clawing at for over six millennia: each other.

Crowley loved Aziraphale, but the change he yearned for most fervently was somehow the only one he had ever been afraid of. Aziraphale, the angel, guardian of the eastern gate, foolish principality, white wings and tartan thermoses and classical composers immortalized on vinyl and old bookshops that refuse to sell books out of fear of losing part of what made them what they are. Crowley longed to touch his skin, to run his hands over each crease and bump and wrinkle that made up Aziraphale's physical form, to feel with his own body what he admired so about the angel's.

Crowley knew that, out of all the stars, every supernova, every black hole, every galaxy, every planet with any number of moons, Aziraphale's was his favorite heavenly body by a long shot.

Crowley wanted to take him into his arms, to whisper words unbefitting of a demon into the waiting ear of an angel - nay, a lover.

But Crowley refrained. Headstrong, he refused. He just kept staring out the bus window, into the vast abyss laid out before him, tantalizingly bright and beautiful but held at arm's length by a cage of metal and glass and rubber.

Oh, that's it.

The lights reminded him of stars.

It's strange how fast human technology can progress if you're not paying attention. Humans start out completely unaware of what the twinkling things in the sky are and before you know it they're making so many of their own that you need to make a designated effort just to be able to see the real ones.

Was Pollution responsible for light pollution as well or was that outside their area of expertise?

Crowley came back to earth once again. He was dead tired - a strange sensation, seeing as he didn't have a need for sleep and therefore didn't become tired naturally, always willing himself to sleep whenever he saw fit - but seeing as he stood as a witness to Satan himself and nearly experienced the apocalypse firsthand, combined with the white noise of the road rushing quickly beneath him and the sterile presence of florescent lights casting upon him, he made the conscious realization that he was utterly drained. The century-long sleep he fell into after breaking ties with Aziraphale didn't even hold a candle to what he was experiencing now; he was honestly more exhausted than he had ever been in his life.

Finally, Crowley turned to face Aziraphale, slow and kind, as if, if only, he had known since his very inception what they would one day mean to each other and was cradling something precious and untouchable with his eyes and needed someone to which he could confide this forbidden knowledge, the one person who would accept it unconditionally for what it was or else it be broken.

The angel, who had momentarily downturned, lifted his head once again to level with him, a warm, tender smile forming on his lips and deep in his eyes. Crowley swore for a second that he could see dozens of those eyes at once, but denied it as a side effect of exhaustion rather than calling attention to it.

Aziraphale opened his mouth as if to say something, perhaps to make small talk or to ask a question he already knew the answer to, to deliberately disturb the thin, delicate air of silence that had spread evenly, as if by design, between them, but decided with a huff to instead keep the peace this time, as he bashfully, carefully took the other man's hand into his own.

Crowley froze, pausing to let his sleepy mind process the action that just took place and drinking everything he could from the warm relief he felt in his beating heart brought by the knowledge - the dedicated certainty - of being loved, before resting his forehead against Aziraphale's shoulder and, allowing himself to decompress fully and finally have the freedom to shrug the weight of the world from his shoulders, he began, with a sharp exhale and a whimper, to softly weep against his coat.

Aziraphale tightened his hold on Crowley's hand and, with his free hand, lifted the demon's face, pressing a warm, soft palm to his cheek and using his thumb to wipe the tears from a particularly tired, particularly emotionally vulnerable serpent's eye.

Crowley gave him a broken smile in response, slightly ashamed but not quite conscious enough to judge himself for it, and placed his own free hand over the one on his cheek, running his fingers along the thin bones made visible through the soft skin of the back of Aziraphale's hand and taking the time to feel each curve, each pore, each hair on each knuckle, trying his best to fulfill as much of his promise of touch as he could in this very moment. The angel pursed his lips and tilted his head slightly, wrinkling his eyes, as if to stifle a cry of his own, before Crowley lost the will to stay awake and gently set his cheek back onto Aziraphale's shoulder, falling asleep in mere moments.

And so, a demon slept soundly on the shoulder of an angel on a bus to Oxford making its way to London.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Enjoy The Silence by Depeche Mode. (Source: I'm gay)
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eXN2jxZ7JF0


End file.
